She appeared to be sleeping. Tan, thin arms rested at her side, grazing the soft covers of her mattress. Her hair spread out behind her, muted without the bright personality of the living soul beneath the skin. The room around her was quiet – black and white and elegant as a tern sailing in the breeze of the sea.
Blake knelt beside her, taking one of her hands into his own. It was warm. He cradled it in both of his, not knowing what the heat of her hand meant. She was so lifeless – it should have been cold.
There was no girl lying before him.
Blake sat beside her on the bed, whispering her name, talking to her, trying to awaken the corpse lying before him.
The corpse that was breathing.
He could not tell if she heard him or even knew he was there.
God, he should have been there.
This girl was as strong and unmovable as her home island. She stood alone and proud and powerful, unwilling to sway even in the sharp wind of a hurricane.
She was still as unmovable as the sea itself.
Now, however, she was untouchable. He could see each breath she took reflected by her thin chest, tiny puffs of air escaping through her nose.
"Christina," he murmured, running one of his large hands through her unique hair.
He touched the silver first, feeling her strength.
Then the gold – her pride.
Finally, the brown – her foundation. Every moment, every feeling that constructed her, sculpted her into herself.
Christina.
He had been too late.
Blake had been proud that he had succeeded in saving his poor, fragile Anya. He had whisked her away as if he was prince charming and she his princess.
Yet, in doing so, he had forgotten the young girl with the stone face, willing to laugh and smile at danger, even when her heart was pounding in her chest and her mind was seconds away from failing her.
She was no longer smiling. He wasn't sure if she remembered how to smile anymore.
Blake knew somewhere inside of himself that he couldn't do much for her now. She was far worse than Anya had been – she was catatonic and weak, unable to move, to stand, to fold laundry like Anya had.
He ran his hand through her hair again, this time not differentiating between the colors. Now, they blended together, becoming dull as brown and silver and gold became gray.
He had been one of the very few she trusted.
He had failed her worse than any other because when his girl was saved, he threw the rest to the dogs, to the villains.
Looking down at Christina, he wondered if she would prefer being dead.
After all, she was only a shell, and she would have never wanted that.
Angry, Blake stood, trembling as he stepped away from Christina. He couldn't be in there any longer.
God, he had failed her.
At the door, he took one final look at Christina. He stared at her face, calm and peaceful and silent.
She would have never been silent.
He looked at her frail hands lying over her chest, folded as if she was on display at a funeral home.
She never had enjoyed being still.
He looked at her muted, gray hair spread behind her, no more light glittering through it, no more bounce as she moved and ran.
She looked as if she was sleeping.
But Blake would never forget the soulless stare her open eyes held as they looked through him, at something only Christina could see – or perhaps nothing at all, even to Christina.
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Wow, I love this series, and it should be much more popular...
Disclaimer: I don't own Losing Christina